League Judgment
by Leon He
Summary: A compilation of fan-made judgments I've written. Currently featuring: Dr. Mundo, Shen, Kayle, Garen, Xin Zhao, Katarina, Morgana, and Shyvana
1. Mundo

**Candidate**: Dr. Mundo  
**Date**: 20 October, 19 CLE

**OBSERVATION**

His labored breaths echo within the marble chamber. Every step he takes sends the foundations of the Halls rattling as saliva drips off of his chin and leaves a trail in his wake. His shoulders are armored in muscle, and the laziness of his gait causes them to wobble back and forth as he walks, like his weight cannot stay in one place. He beelines straight for the doors to the Reflecting Chamber, knocking his giant meat cleaver against them. There is no trace of restraint in the swings of his arms.

"Mundo ready for judge-room!" he hollers to nobody, between slobbers spewing from his mouth. He smashes his weapon against the doors again, somehow with even more force, but fails to even scratch the polish. The doctor releases an inhuman grunt, and turns the cleaver on himself, the rusted edge drawing a river of blood from his arm. Doctor Mundo yells as his right arm heaves back and hurdles through the air towards the doors, tearing the seam of his coat. He flings the cleaver. The impact punches a hole through the stone doors, and the projectile continues to fly into the chamber.

"Mundo need cleaver if Mundo be judgemented." His voice already back to its half-slobber, half-laugh, the doctor waddles in.

**REFLECTION**

He saw his own skin, so pale. His muscles weren't overgrown and bulky, and he had no trouble keeping drool off of his chin. And to be able to think so clearly, it was like a distant dream that dared not haunt him. He was Doctor Ussich Mundolev again, running his clinic in entertainment district of Zaun. He was serving a specially prepared tea to his patient, with curatives popular among courtesans. This one always came back to his clinic, always with her sanguine lips, wild firey hair, and crimson eyes. They contrasted so well with her pearly skin. And the heels on those boots, how much effort did it take to move around in those things?

She reached for a coin purse, but Ussich raised his hand to stop her.. "No charge this time, Miss Evelynn. Just promise you'll put it towards finding a more honest profession." She smiled that sweet genuine smile that he knew none of her customers ever got to see.

"Of course, doctor. I've been taking dance lessons in the mornings." Ussich felt something warm inside him, a sensation he knew he would not ever feel again. Darkness overtook him.

Ussich was holding her body in his arms. Beneath the dimming street light, he could see see a gaping hole where her heart should have been. Blood continued to pour out of her chest, flooding her gown. Her breath was weak as she cupped his square jaw in her hand.

"Hold on, Eve," he pleaded. "I'm a doctor, I'm a _doctor_! I can fix this!" He was rushing through alleys and around corners, taking every shortcut to his home. He thought he heard her laugh as she mumbled her last words.

"Is this my punishment? Was it wrong...for a hooker to love?" She hacked up blood, coughing a stain onto Ussich's coat.

"Eve, no...No!" Even though he carried her, Ussich never felt so helpless. "Evelynn, who did this? _Who did this to you?_"

"V-Vladimir," she said as her last breath escaped her lips. Her body went limp and Ussich fell to his knees. He did not care he was in public. Let the world know that he cried, because Evelynn was dead. He knew that when he would wake up the next morning, her corpse would be gone. And in a month there would be an assassin with her name and her looks, but without her heart. Tears flooded his eyes.

Ussich could see the syringe in his hand. He knew what it would do to him. It would mutilate his body, annihilate his mind, and mutate him into somebody else entirely. But this Crimson Reaper was some kind of devil, and a doctor was not fit to fight devils. He had to become a monster. The needle plunged into his shoulder, and he felt everything shatter. His legs gave way, falling to his knees. Muscle fibers grew and multiplied, to inhuman proportions. Something inside his head snapped, and suddenly everything, even the pain, was funny.

He looked up, and Evelynn was there, the wound still in her chest. As she spoke, Ussich's breathing fell silent and salt stung the edges of his eyes. "Why do you want to join the League, Doctor Mundo?"

"Because he tore out your heart, and ripped mine to shreds with it." Ussich's voice rose. "_**AND FOR THAT, HE MUST SUFFER!**_" Flesh grew over the hole in her chest, and he felt the haze cloud his mind again.

"How does it feel, exposing your mind?"

"Mundo forget on purpose," Dr. Mundo said. He snatched his cleaver from the floor with a grip that threatened to shatter the handle. "Now Mundo **mad**." He wobbled off, ready to cleave the next thing that moved.


	2. Shen

**Candidate**: Shen  
**Date**: 03 April, 20 CLE

**OBSERVATION**

The Eye of Twilight emerges from behind a marble pillar. From head to toe, his ninja garb covers his features. The only indication that Shen is human is the his exposed skin between his shoulder guards and his gloves. The flesh of his arms is mottled with scars and burns from battles untold. Though he stands tall, he exudes no presence. Though he stands in plain sight, unwary eyes could easily miss him.

Shen dashes to the door, one arm guarding his face and the other on a sword. His feet kick up flecks of dust about him, but his eyes pay them no notice. He places his fingertips on the stone doors, looking up to the sign reading, "The truest opponent lies within". Any response he may have is unreadable, save for his eyelids. He blinks once, twice. A pause before he does so a third time. Without a word, he pushes the doors open, the heavy stone barriers as silent as he. He enters the darkness, leaving the room as empty as it had already felt.

**REFLECTION**

Shen saw the body of his father on the ground. It was shorn open, entrails spilling out of his gut. His legs bent the wrong way, and severed fingers littered the bloody floor around him. Shen blinked, absorbing the sight before him. He could not flinch, could not hesitate. It would throw away everything he had worked towards. It would throw away his life.

"Do it," he heard Master Fusowa's voice command. Shen positioned his hands around his father's neck, and squeezed. He could hear the wheezing beneath the struggling body, taste the stench of death on his lips. Hands were trying to grab his arms, but they were as weak as a newborn baby's. Shen's father was already dead, his body only needed to catch up. The ninja continued to crush his victim's throat, staring right into his eyes. He looked for pride, for a silent communication of a job well done from his father. Instead he found the pupils of a man, beaten and broken, attempting to escape his grave.

Shen counted his breaths. It was not many before he held a corpse.

"Excellent work," Master Fusowa said. "Before you inherit your father's title as the Eye of Twilight, there is one last test." Shen felt something twitch beneath his skin. No, this was the final test. What was this trick of memory? "Shen, look behind you." The young ninja turned around, and he saw a tombstone behind him, crows perched atop it.

"What... What is this?" Shen looked behind him, but Master Fusowa and his father were gone. He was no longer in the torture chamber, but out in an open field with a single grave. Once more, the smell of rot overtook him. He could see the earth beneath the stone shift, and a body emerged. Nearly all the skin had been burned off, and almost all the flesh carried scars. The ears were cut away, the pupils had been dissolved in acid, and its lips had been peeled off. There was not a trace of hair anywhere. The mutilated body stood before Shen and he was forced to recall all his training to contain his shiver.

Shen pulled the mask away from his face. He had been wearing it so long, he needed a few moments before realizing he was gazing into his reflection.

"Why do you want to join the League, Shen?" the doppelganger asked.

Shen blinked once, twice. He hesitated before blinking a third time. To talk about maintaining balance and harmony in Valoran was too easy. No, that was the answer they expected of him. They were probing his mind, reading his thoughts. They knew he would say that, and then ask again for a better answer. So be it; if honesty was the last thing they were expecting, then he would answer with just that.

"Without pain, there is no pleasure. Without sorrow, joy," Shen said. He could feel the cold breeze on his exposed gums. "A man who knows none of these things is no man at all, but a walking corpse."

"And?" The illusion persisted.

"In murdering these feelings, I have murdered myself." The ninja touched his chest, the raw muscle covering his heart. "I wish to join the League because I want to feel alive again."

"How does it feel to have your mind exposed?" Shen stood silent. He blinked once, twice, and a pause before his third. As the illusion faded away, Shen slipped back into the shadows, leaving the room as empty as it had been with his presence. He could hear the question again, resounding in the chamber. "How does it feel..." the image repeated before cutting itself off, realizing the answer. "Oh."


	3. Kayle

**Candidate**: Kayle  
**Date**: 13 March, 19 CLE

**OBSERVATION**

Kayle stands on the ground. Her wings are folded upon her back, feathers preened and in perfect arrangement. Her golden armor shines in the light, immaculately polished. She holds her sword in both hands, pointed to the floor, and bows her head. Her face is hidden beneath her helmet as she whispers a prayer in her native tongue.

Her movement exudes divine grace, not wasting a motion as she glides towards the stone doors. She holds her sword in a single hand, though it is so large it would require a lesser being twice as many. Beneath the visor, the endless skies of her pupils study the plaque. It reads, "The truest opponent lies within." Kayle removes her helmet, revealing golden hair and a face that can only be described as angelic. She issues but two words, her voice decided and unforgiving.

"I accept."

**JUDGMENT**

Kayle sat on a cloud, basking in the light of the gods, dressed in a simple robe for children. Her wings were going through their first molting, and she could not fly just then. Instead, she watched her sister tumble and frolic through the skies, her honeyed voice laughing as her snowy hair fluttered through in the air. She wasn't flying because she had anywhere to go. She was just doing it because they were new, not even old enough for their first shedding, and because she wanted to.

"Morgana, you can't fly like that. It's not allowed," Kayle said. She could hear her voice as a child, lacking any of the sternness she should have commanded.

"But sister, it's so fun. Why do the gods say we're not allowed to do anything that's fun?" Kayle saw her sister hovering in front of her. She could feel the breeze from Morgana's wings rustling her hair. Kayle put on the best look of anger her young face could muster and scolded her sister.

"The gods have good reason for everything they tell us, so we have to listen. Now stop that before you get into trouble." Kayle could see Morgana's face fall as she landed on the cloud. Kayle felt the sunlight dim, when she turned to her sulking sister."Let me braid your hair, Morgana." Her voice was much softer. "I'll make it look pretty this time, I promise."

"I want to braid your hair!" Morgana pouted as she stretched her wings and pounded them through the air them in frustration. "You should let your hair grow long so we can do it together!" Kayle tugged on one of her sunny locks and smiled. She nearly promised to let her hair grow out when the sun flared, blinding her.

When the angel regained sight, her arms were swinging a wooden sword down at Morgana. Her sister was shrieking in fright, huddling behind a sword of her own, too scared to grip it properly. The training weapons clacked on each other, and the shock rattled Morgana's stick out of her hands. Kayle struck again, catching Morgana on the wrist. It was a cursory blow, only enough to leave a sharp pain and a bruise, but Kayle could see her sister fall to the floor, clutch her wrist, and sob.

"I'm sorry, Morgana," Kayle said. She felt her stomach wrench. She remembered how she pleaded with the gods to wait for another two years before Morgana begun her training. Her sister was brilliant, but simply too young, she said. The gods were deaf to her voice and commanded Kayle to teach her the sword, and to be as strict as she would with any student. She had to obey, but the gods had to understand showing mercy just this once. "Let me help, I can use magic to take the pain away." Kayle reached out to her baby sister, but Morgana swatted her hand away.

"Shut up! Shut up, Kayle! I hate you!" Morgana spat the words while nursing her injury. Kayle wanted to say something, about how she had almost convinced the gods to let Morgana skip sparring and start magic lessons early, but words failed her. Her lips were sealed as she gathered the swords from the training hall and returned them to the armory. Morgana laid on the floor, tears running down her face the entire time. Light overtook Kayle's sense again.

She was in her silver armor trimmed with green. Through the narrow slit in her helmet, she could see Morgana, almost fully grown, standing between Kayle and her mark. The man was a necromancer, one who manipulated the force of death for his own power. The gods had judged him guilty of mortal sin and had sent Kayle to execute him. But he was also Morgana's lover.

"Stand aside," Kayle commanded. The helmet caused her voice to resonate, giving it a commanding aura that would have forced lesser beings to obey. Morgana stood still. "The gods have deemed this man a necromancer, and he must die."

"He is a healer, sister!" Morgana's voice begged Kayle for mercy, but it would not penetrate her armor. "His command over life and death is no different from ours. He cures the sick and saves the lives of the dying. Why is it forbidden for him to share our talents?"

"Morgana, you are the Light of Truth. Do not be blind. A mortal does not understand or judge as we do. Thus, it is forbidden." When Kayle raised her sword, Morgana screamed and dove on top of the man, shielding his body with her own. Kayle flew at the pair and ran her blade through Morgana, into the necromancer. Her sister's body went limp, and Kayle threw her aside to get a better shot at the man. Her sword came down again, removing his head from his body. Once more she struck, plunging the tip of her weapon into his heart. There was no mercy for heretics.

"Kayle, why?" She could her Morgana's voice, weak and fading, but dripping with sorrow. Kayle flew to her side and cradled her sister's body in her arms. She gathered a healing light. Her magic was not as potent as Morgana's, but it would save her sister's life. Kayle applied it, as she saw the color drain from Morgana's body. Her sister was unconscious, but she would live. Unfortunately, Kayle knew she would not learn.

Without warning, Morgana's body snapped to life, wings beating in the air. She looked down at Kayle, gaze piercing the visor. "Why do you want to join the League, Kayle?"

"You threaten to end the existence of my people with Runeterra's magic," she responded, her voice automatic and unwavering. "It was agreed that when I join, that magic will be forbidden to you." The image of young Morgana floated down to Kayle, and stared at her, eye to eye. Kayle felt her sister lifting away her helmet, and for the first time in ages she saw Morgana's face clearly. Morgana asked her again.

"Why do _you_ want to join the League, Kayle?" The angel stood silent for a moment. She looked to the necromancer's body, and then to the scar on Morgana's stomach.

"Because I failed you." Kayle fell to her knees and hung her head, her sword clattering to the ground. "I failed to protect you, baby sister, and if I must suffer in this cold, forsaken hell as my punishment, then I accept."

"_Why do you want to join the League, Kayle?_" The question came a third time. Kayle clenched her eyes shut attempting to hold back a tear. When they opened, she saw a wooden sword where hers should have been. She was wearing a child's robes again, and her voice was young as it had been in her first memory. She could feel Morgana's hands braiding her hair.

"Because," her voice quaked, "I would turn away from the gods themselves if I knew it meant you would forgive me." The words were heresy, but Morgana would know that they were true.

All the visions dissolved, and the angel was back in the chamber. She was an adult again, in her full golden armor, and sword laid at her feet. "How does it feel, exposing your mind?" a resonating voice asked.

Kayle regained her composure and tugged at her golden hair, only recently sheared to fit inside her helmet. She looked at her sword. "Personal matters have never inhibited me in the past. They will not start now." The angel retrieved her weapon from the floor and tucked her helmet beneath an arm. She flew through the doors where she entered, hearing a voice send her off.

"Welcome to the League, Kayle."


	4. Garen

**Candidate**: Garen Crownguard  
**Date**: 23 April, 20 CLE

**OBSERVATION**

Though the room is otherwise empty, the Might of Demacia towers regardless. His armor is bulky and heavy, and there is no doubt that a man who wears it must himself be a giant. Beneath gargantuan pauldrons, a blue cape is fastened, the highest honor a Demacian soldier can wear. Even in still air, the cape flutters, unable to conceal the mammoth greatsword beneath it. From hilt to blade, it is adorned with decorations, each one symbolizing a battle that the Might himself commanded.

Garen's eyes stare straight ahead, always ready and always judging. One look into them, and there is a man who has been forged and hardened by countless fights, battles, and wars. A gloved hand runs through his russet hair, neatly parted down the middle. Royal blue eyes slowly rise, meeting the sign above the doors. A low muttering can be heard from Garen's lips, concealed beneath the clasp of his cloak. One boot before the other, he marches to the doors and pushes them open, seemingly without effort. Again, he mutters something and enters.

**REFLECTION**

Garen twirled his sword in his right hand, making a playful taunt at Horatio with his left. The two had joined the military on the same day, trained together, shared jokes, and been the best of friends. But were Horatio a better swordsman, a better student, he would have known a training sword would have been too heavy for that kind of twirl. That was the reason Horatio had to die.

"Come on, Horatio. One more pass," Garen said. "I'll even fight with one hand behind my back this time." Garen could see Horatio grin that toothy grin. He was a scraggly boy with strawlike hair, not at all suited to the rigors of military life. Another few months, and they would both graduate into full-fledged soldiers. Horatio did not have another few months.

"Garen, I'm so tired already. I'm not talented like you." Horatio's shoulders slumped as he saw Garen continue to hold his sword, one arm behind his back. "You're not gonna let me off, are you?" Horatio laughed with the last of his breath. Garen looked into his sandy eyes, seeing a boy who cared nothing about training or duty, but only the next hot meal and warm bed. "Okay then, but really go easy on me. For Demacia?"

"For Demacia," Garen said, returning the verbal salute. He nodded his slight nod, and the two friends charged. Horatio's sword dragged low to the ground, his scrawny and sweaty arms too fatigued for a high cut. Garen's own sword met Horatio's stance, a low strike against another low. Such a duel would always come down to the quicker combatant. At five paces away, both boys narrowed their eyes at one another. At three paces, both soldiers-to-be let out a fierce war cry. At one pace, Garen took an extra step, much faster than Horatio's eyes could possibly track, and let his blade howl.

It was a split second before Horatio knew what was happening. Garen could see him looking down, a clean cut opening him from hip to opposite rib, blood and gore spilling out. He was teetering on his heels, the force of Garen's strike knocking him backwards. Garen's fist smashed his chest in, and Horatio crashed to the ground, his voice wheezing.

"Garen..." His voice was already weak. Garen could see Horatio's eyes looking up to him, pleading. "The sword... why..." For the briefest moment, Garen closed his eyes, recalling what they had told him.

_Do you see how he can barely hold a spear? Do you hear how he cannot recite a single word from The Measured Tread? Prove your loyalty to Demacia, Garen, for if you do not strike him down in the training grounds, he will allow the enemy to strike you and all your comrades down on the battlefield._

"For Demacia," Garen repeated, his voice completely drone. "I'm sorry, Horatio." Garen squinted his eyes and drove his sword down into Horatio's body, killing him with a shriek from his victim. It would not be a convincing training accident, but it did not need to be. They had told him all the necessary cover-ups would be made. It would not be many, as a trainee as poor as Horatio would not be missed. As he withdrew his sword, Garen saw no blood on the blade. His eyes looked to one side, then the other, his mind racing with suspicion. When he turned around, he saw Alain.

"Please, Captain Garen. I will stand in the second rank, but not the first." Garen felt the sudden weight of his armor on his shoulders, the weight of his mammoth blade in his hands. Though they were not beyond his capacity, they were still as new as his position of command, and he had not yet grown fully accustomed to them. He looked straight into Alain's crimson eyes, eyes which were full of fear. "I have a wife with child! Don't make me stand in the front of the charge!"

"Alain, when you agreed to return to service, you agreed to comply with all aspects of service, did you not?" Garen growled and narrowed his eyes, peering further into Alain's own. "Tell me, what is the first line of the seventh verse of The Measured Tread?" He could hear the soldier stammer something that sounded like "a Demacian does not retreat," but they were rendered incomprehensible by his quivering lips. Now Alain's eyes, body, his whole being exuded sheer terror. But Garen could tell this man was not afraid of leading the charge anymore.

"S-s-sir, I take it back! Put me on the front line!" Alain's shoulders shrank as he cowered, his head tilted inwards to shield himself.

"It is too late, Alain. I have seen into you, and I have judged what is in your heart." Garen's low voice grew stern and level, without a trace of emotion. "I hereby declare you guilty of cowardice, and I sentence you to death."

As Garen slowly approached his subordinate, Alain slowly backed away, sputtering frightened protests. Garen's own legs were much longer than Alain's, and thus the gap was closing. The Alain turned tail, breaking to a full sprint, but Garen bounded, catching his mark in mere moments. With a vice-like grip on his shoulder, Garen kicked out Alain's knee from the side, snapping his leg and forcing him down to all fours. He could hear the coward's voice still begging for mercy. Garen shut his ears to the plea of the traitor, as he had been trained to do. With a single cry, he plunged his blade down into Alain's back, the point bursting out of the coward's chest. Garen kicked the warm body off of his weapon, and held the blood-stained silver blade to the air and looked to the rest of his camp. All of his soldiers were watching.

"For Demacia," he cried, his voice resolute.

"No Garen. Not for Demacia," they shouted back in unison. Garen was puzzled. None of the soldiers in his command should have answered like that. He peered at the crowd, and saw that while they wore the uniforms of Demacian soldiers, they were not his regiment. They did not have the postures of soldiers, but instead stood sloppily and sluggishly shambled about, like bodies that were losing control of themselves. Their flesh was rotting off of their bones. Worst of all, none of them had faces, instead each one wearing the same indecipherable blur on their heads.

Yet Garen recognized each and every one of them. Horatio, Alain, Urgot, Sion...and so many more. Suddenly, a tide of the smell of rot overcame Garen's nostrils. They were all tripping, crawling to get to him. Garen froze. It was happening again. Every soldier he had slain, every deserter he had executed, every life he had ended, on the battlefield and off. They had come back.

"You don't deserve to live Garen. Look at us, look at how many you have murdered with naught but ice in your heart." They were all chanting with one voice, yet Garen could pick out the individual voices from every single person. Garen panicked, falling back to his hands and knees. His sword laid discarded by his side, and the cape beneath him made it impossible to scramble backwards. He could feel sweat pour from every gland. His drenched face, always so calm and composed, shrank to that of a child scared of monsters in the dark. Suddenly, his armor felt heavier than Valoran itself, and Garen was paralyzed. They were coming to get him, and Garen clutched his hands to his head, a single thought resounding in his mind.

_I don't_

_Deserve_

_To live!_

Garen awoke. Garen could hear himself panting heavily, his face still covered in cold sweat. Inches away from his face were a pair of eyes, emerald green, a scar crossing through the left, and adorned by hanging strands of crimson hair. Garen knew these eyes, and every time they looked at him, all he saw were genuine care and concern. It had taken him a long time to figure them out, as he had never seen the same expression in anyone else's eyes.

"Garen, you were screaming in your sleep. Who was it this time?"

"All of them." Garen's voice shivered along with his body. "It was all of them and all they said was..." Garen was about to repeat the words, when he felt a finger hush his lips. Unlike his own hard and calloused hands, hers were leathery yet still delicate.

"Don't say it, Garen. Don't you ever say it." Garen could feel her shift in the bed beside him, and she leaned her head against his, their cheeks pressed together. Her voice whispered, a tenderness slipping past her lips. "You make me happy. You deserve to live." As Garen pressed his lips to hers, he felt everything around him shatter, leaving him stranded in the darkness, fully naked.

"Why do you want to join the League, Garen Crownguard?" a voice boomed in his head. Garen buried his face in his hands. They had extracted it all from his head, and now they knew it all. There was no sense in hiding from them.

"I have to be by her side," he whispered into his palms. He had expected his voice to be shamed, to be disgraced that he found love in a Noxian. Instead he found comfort and relief. He found what he had been looking for all this time. When he looked up, he was in an empty chamber, constructed from marble. He was in his armor again, sword strapped to his back.

"How does it feel, exposing your mind?" The empty voice boomed again.

"When you have nightmares every night that drive you to the brink of madness," Garen said, his commanding tone back, "then you will know. Until then, do not presume that any words can convey it." Garen brusquely turned to the doors, his cape fluttering through the air. So now they knew his secret, and perhaps they would seek to use it against him. So be it; let them come.

He still had her.


	5. Xin Zhao

**Candidate: Xin Zhao  
Date: 13 July, 20 CLE**

OBSERVATION

Xin Zhao stands in the Great Hall, his entire character muted as his own voice. His armor is unpolished and unassuming, his spear simple save the tassel hanging from the head. Though he marches in time with an unheard drummer, his feet betray no sound on the marble floor. The only sign of chaos is his hair, swinging in the air as he approaches the doors.

As he reads the inscription, he allows a laugh. It is mirthless and infected with sarcasm. A push that appears to have no force behind it sends the doors flying open. Air rushes out of the chamber, whipping past Xin Zhao and sending his hair fluttering. He peers into the dark chamber before him and nods.

**REFLECTION**

Xin Zhao fell to one knee. He gasped for clean air as toxins plagued his lungs, strangling him from within. Blood streamed down his face, flowing through the cobbled ground like a river. The clash of steel on steel sang in his ears, a dissonant harmony. The screams of soldier and civilian alike, cut down in the streets. Aches pummeled his body. Stand and fight, his instinct said, stand or die.

Xin Zhao loved this rush.

The spear charged first, and Xin Zhao followed. A Noxian soldier stood before him, a man of some rank. Sergeant or lieutenant, possibly a captain. He had no care as they all bled the same. A dodge to the side, and Xin Zhao whirled, catching him with the butt of his spear. As the Noxian tumbled to the ground, Xin Zhao pounced on top of him. A fist to the throat, another to the temple, and he stopped struggling. A spear through his skull, and Xin Zhao congratulated himself on another victory.

"I've found the refugees. Let us disengage, Brother Xin!" A gaunt man met Xin Zhao's eyes, robed in black and wielding a long blade. Blood sullied his thin features, matting his dark goatee. People huddled behind him. How many exactly was more than Xin Zhao cared to count, but enough that they stood a chance of injuring him if they were armed.

"I disengage when there is no one left to engage," Xin Zhao replied, his lips curling into a grin. "Noxus begs to be slaughtered today, and so I shall humor them." Dislodging his spear, Xin Zhao turned his back to the crowd and began to walk off.

"These people need us to protect them." The voice was pleading, begging him to stay. "Yet you would walk away to sate your hunger for death! Did the master teach us to thirst for blood, Brother Xin?"

"Ionia will continue to burn if we do not stand before them." Xin Zhao turned, pointing his his weapon at his comrade and staring down its shaft. "Yet you would run to save yourself. Did the master teach us to be so craven, Brother Yi?" Silence hung in the air between the two for a moment. Something in Yi's eyes burned through Xin Zhao, much more fierce than whatever poisoned the air. They turned away from one another, Yi to herd off the civilians, and Xin Zhao to return to the fray.

They would have only slowed him down anyway.

One after another Xin Zhao cut through Noxians. They began to bore him as he wondered where the commanders were. Every kill sent his heart over the edge. He was alive and swimming in carnage, a thrill for which he lived. The master had tried to tame his spirit, but nothing, nobody could take this away from him.

And then, she was at his feet again. Head to toe, acid chewed away at her body, chemical devouring her flesh. She looked more a corpse still moving than a human being. Fingertips clawed at his shoes, bleach white bones scraping against leather. Fumes stung his nostrils and drew tears from his eyes. Her voice dragged itself from her throat and labored its way to his ears.

"Please. Save my daughter." All trace of life disappated from her with the last word.

Xin Zhao dropped to his knees. Above the din of war around him, he could hear the coos of an infant searching for him. He threw the mother's limp arm aside, and took the bundle of cloth into his hands. He unraveled the blanket, revealing the child, calm as the still water. The airborne weapons had not touched her; she was unmarred. Her hazel eyes looked back at him. She cooed and giggled, tiny arms reaching out to his face. A drop of blood trickled off of his chin, and splashed onto her forehead, to which she cried out in innocent, unbridled joy.

Xin Zhao opened his mouth.

_Do not say it. Do not ask!_

He begged and pleaded with his body. He screamed and threatened, yelled and hollered. It was no use, he was trapped, a slave to his own memories.

"What is her name?" He waited a moment, expecting an answer. The body was silent. Xin Zhao stood, hoisting his spear. His mind raced, struggling to calculate the path of least resistance. He wanted to think of this as a handicap, a challenge to test his strength. Instead he felt he carried something more valuable than himself, something worth fighting for. He looked down at her face, into her eyes. She smiled and laughed back at him.

"It is time for us to go, little one," he whispered. His feet took off, gliding across the ground. Over bodies Ionian and Noxian he bounded, landing like a feather each time. Every so often, a Noxian uniform would present itself, and Xin Zhao bloodied it, marking one more notch on his spear. Though he was already a mess, blood and dirt began to cake the child and the sheet protecting her. Every spray of grime elicited a squeal of joy from her.

As he fled closer to the city's boundaries, Noxian squads grew. Some flung themselves headfirst, almost on top of his spear itself. Others hid and ambushed, to run him through from behind. Every dodge had to be modified at the last moment, every thrust rebalanced from the weight of the infant. Xin Zhao's form grew sloppy, injuries adding up and taxing his body. The nip of a spear here and the graze of an arrow there. He could not fight the enemy off quickly enough, and he became surrounded. As he kicked away a flanker, an axe buried itself in his shoulder, forcing him to the ground. As he collapsed, he held the baby tight in his arms, so she would not be hurt by his fall.

"A man of your standing does not sire a child out of wedlock," said a man towering over him. Though Xin Zhao's vision blurred, he could see a groomed man in an immaculately pressed uniform. His low voice beckoned Xin Zhao to answer. "So tell me, why fight, why endanger your own life for somebody else's babe?" He bent down and took the child from Xin Zhao's arms. He did not resist, fearing for her safety. Arms grabbed him and hoisted him to his feet. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled back as his neck refused to hold his head up on its own.

"I do not know," Xin Zhao said, a gasp of blood and dirt between each word. He could see his opponent clearly now, child held delicately in his arms, and axe strapped across his back. Only one man in Noxus could remain so clean in the rage of combat.

"I believe you," the major said, plucking a flower that grew on the roadside. "A week ago, I would have said the same, but now I would fight as hard as you did if anyone dared to threaten my Katarina. Not entirely the same, I suppose, but I must empathize with your fervor. Come, give her a name. You are more a father than her real one."

Xin Zhao studied the flower. It wore beautiful lavender petals, yet he knew it was also poisonous and grew in any condition in spite of all weeding efforts.

"Irelia," he coughed out. "You hold an Irelia in each hand, Major Du Couteau." Through the pain he smiled, wondering if the major would ever understand the irony. Consciousness slipped away from him.

"Why do you wish to join the League, Xin Zhao?"

"I know she's coming soon." Xin Zhao did not open his eyes, allowing the calm to wash over him. "I wish to see her with my own eyes again. I wish to fight alongside her."

"How does it feel, exposing your mind?"

"Viscero had forgotten," Xin Zhao said. The gentle sound of his breath filled the room. "Thank you."

The voice, no longer familiar, gave a perfunctory congratulation. Xin Zhao did not budge. Several times, it suggested that he exist the chamber, but Xin Zhao did not humor a response. Eventually, silence fell over the chamber, and it went dark, content to let a sleeping man lie.


	6. Katarina

**Candidate**: Katarina du Couteau  
**Date**: July 12, 17 CLE

**OBSERVATION**

The Sinister Blade enters the marble halls. Her movements match her reputation. Exact, quick, and lethal. Volumes of blood red hair sway behind her, though it fails to hinders her. A row of knives encircle her waist, her swaying arms ready to snatch them at any moments.

Katarina stops to read the inscription above the doors. _The truest opponent lies within_, it reads. She brings a finger up to her face, and traces it down the scar on her eye. She places a hand on the doors, ready to open them, but she hesitates. She massages her scar again before entering the chamber.

**REFLECTION**

Katarina's path was blocked. It was the dead of night, lamps dimly lighting the foyer of her mansion, but a guard stood before the doors. His back was straight and his posture at full attention, still as a statue. In a black longcoat he remained vigilant, tall collar framing his grand beard, grey with experience. Any other house guard, and she would have told him to step aside, and he would have obeyed. But this was the one who she knew would refuse to yield.

"You cannot stop me, father," Katarina said. She had rehearsed the line so many times, to make sure her voice would not stumble or squeak. As she locked eyes with his, staring back into the mirror of her hazel eyes, she knew she had succeeded. He was no longer the master, her the student. They were finally equals.

"You have something that belongs to me. Return it." General du Couteau's voice was stone, ready to crush any opposition. He held out his hand, waiting for his daughter to drop something in his hand. Katarina pulled a scroll from a pocket, bearing the wax seal of the League.

"If you will not accept the invitation, then I, your firstborn child, will accept in your place." Katarina drew a single breath to repeat her words. "And you cannot stop me, father." She heard the click of his blades from beneath his sleeves, that chirp of the executioner. Most who heard it never heard another sound, but the war cry of the blades howled right into her ears.

Katarina planted flat to the ground, an obsidian edge slicing away a strand of hair. Over her head and to her hands she somersaulted, catching her father's arm. Twirling her body, she tumbled through the air, tearing the general off of his feet, sending his body spiraling with hers. With feline grace she landed in a low crouch, a blade in her right hand and another dancing through the fingers of her left. When she looked up, she saw her father standing up straight, as if he had never moved. His wristblade peeked out from his cuff, pointed to the marble floor in a low guard. His left hand was tucked behind his back.

Three knives sailed from her grasp. A single sweep of his arm swatted them away with a clatter. It was then he charged, the weight of his feet trampling the ground. Of course, it was the Lion's Roar, her father's favorite combination. First, a sweeping slash. Duck. Then, a downwards slash. Tumble back. Finally, a gutting thrust. Instead of the parry she'd be taught, Katarina dove at her father. She grabbed his arm, allowing his strength to lift her off her feet. Over his back she cartwheel, the point always a breath away from gutting her. Dismounting, she left with a spinning heel to his spine.

Style fifty five: The Swallow's Folly. Nobody had ever connected it on Marcus du Couteau before.

The general pivoted to his flank. He threw a quick jab to keep Katarina away, an attack easily evaded. He struck again, another slash dodged. The feeling of pain must have angered him, taunted him. Though his strikes were still sharp and precise, they were too predictable. The squeaks of his feet, the twitches in his elbows, Katarina knew which attack was coming every time. Fine, she thought, let him drown himself in his hubris. All the better to prove my point. She let him force him into a corner, expecting a backhand slash that would allow her an easy escape.

"Is this how it ends, Kat?" Her father did not strike. A flick of his foot, and the scroll jumped into his hand. That conniving fox! She wasn't the one leading him; he had been dictating her movements all along. He had let her think she was in control, when he had been the one dancing towards the invitation. Marcus turned his back to his daughter, coat sweeping in the air. Katarina felt her nerve snap, the one she had steeled for this very night. No, it would not end like this. She would not allow it.

Like a starving animal lunging for food, Katarina dove at her father. Her eyes were fixated on the scroll. She lost sight of it before; she refused to make the same mistake. She could see her father glance over his shoulder. That look of panic, the distortion of the face when you know you've been ambushed. It was only a flicker, a brief falter before the blade came out. She could feel the edge open a seam in her forehead. It tore down through her eye, sinking deep into her cheek. The pain dropped her. Katarina grasped her face, blood oozing all over herself.

Fire searing through her nerves blinded her. Strangling gasps echoed in her ears. Having her face torn open scrambled her mind. She lost the battle. It was then that she recalled her father's words.

_Do not look when you must see._

Katarina opened her eyes. Blood forced her left to snap shut, but she could see the trail on the ground, marking a path back to the scroll she came for.

_Do not listen when you must hear._

Footsteps, getting louder. Her father was approaching.

_Do not think when you must know._

I know, she thought. I know why you've been so hard on me all these years. Why you always made me work the hardest, pitted me against the best. Why you're willing to hurt me right now. I know you've grown old, and your successor must live up you.

"Katarina, it's okay." His hand dipped into her vision, offering her help back onto her feet. She pulled her last blade, slipping it into his sleeve and shredding the bind of his weapon. The dagger traced up his arm, grazing the leather. It found its mark at the base of her father's neck, pressed against his flesh and licking a drop of blood. With her good eye, she matched her gaze to his, grinning. She held out her free hand, feeling the flaky dry paper between her fingers.

"Why do you with to join the League, Katarina du Couteau?"

"Not just yet," she said. "Search a little deeper, summoner. You'll know when you have your answer."

Katarina closed her eyes. She could smell the faint musk of his leather coat. The soft crush of his curly beard on her head. The loving embrace of his arms and the sound of his dusty voice.

"Make me proud, Kat."

As it all melted away, Katarina saw a stranger standing before her. Decorated in ornate robes, he had to be the summoner who conducted the entire trial. He spoke.

"How does it feel, exposing your mind?"

"I wonder if father would have seen the same thing," she said. "Are we done, then? I tire of embarrassing myself before fools."

"Welcome to the League, Katarina," he said, motioning the doors open.


	7. Morgana

**Candidate**: Morgana  
**Date**: 12 November, 5 CLE

**OBSERVATION**

What once was beautiful enters the chamber with a grave air about her. Her exposed skin is a dull grey, mottled and scarred by battles unknown. Her deep violet hair is frayed and unkempt, a mess in need of care. Her wings are torn and burnt, a vestigial reminder of the life she abandoned long ago.

Adorned in decorated robes, she is greeted by High Councilor Ashram. Her response is perfunctory, a few cold words laced with disdain. Her sullen voice demands to get on with this performance, for she has no time to waste. Ashram opens a door, and motions her to follow him inside. Morgana lets out a grunt of disapproval, though she obliges.

**REFLECTION**

The room was not merely well lit. Lights shone to the point of stinging Morgana's eyes, and from what direction, she could not tell. The walls were not simply white, but glowed with some kind of radiant energy. Though simple and blank, the intensity of the room forced Morgana to shield herself. She could not figure out why, but this room made her feel bare.

"You may wish to make yourself comfortable before we begin," Ashram said. He made a few gestures with his hands and a seat appeared, woven from red velvet. His hand motioned at the piece of furniture, inviting his guest to sit.

"I will stand," Morgana answered with the slightest hiss in her voice. "Get it over with, Ashram."

"Very well." Ashram folded his hands behind his back and turned away from Morgana. His voice echoed, "Why do you wish to join the League, Morgana?"

"Must we suffer these empty gestures?" Morgana asked, making no effort to hide her impatience. A few moments of silence passed as the high councilor said nothing, not even budging. "We agreed that I will serve in your arena as a champion, and you will give me access to your magic. I need you arts to dethrone the tyrants of my world."

"Morgana, I must warn you," Ashram begun after clearing his throat, "the process of bonding with a summoner is, how shall I say, intimate. If you are to be a champion in the League, you need to be ready to expose yourself. None of these surface thoughts and half-truths."

"You think I'm lying?" Her voice rose, a blend of irritation and indignation. "You think this is some kind of facade?"

"Ah, not quite. But we're going to need to delve deeper to see if you're ready for this. Pardon, but this may sting for a moment." Ashram turned to Morgana, lashing out a hand. White light shot from his palm, searing the fallen angel's eyes. It was more shock than pain that caused her to cry out, hands covering her face in reflex. When her eyes stopped throbbing and she could see again, she saw nothing but the image of her sister. Her radiant beauty, tempered by her cold demeanor, not yet fully matured. Morgana wanted to scowl, but something held her back.

"Interesting," Ashram's voice echoed. "You know nothing of your parents?"

"They died in the war shortly after my birth. Others looked after us, but Kayle was the one who took care of me."

_Why am I answering this?_

"She must have been young herself. I wonder, would you say she knew what she was doing? Her efforts to protect and raise you as a child, were they adequate?"

"Enough questions!" Morgana swiped a taloned hand at her sister, only for her claws to pass through the visage to no effect. "What does any of this matter to you and your **** arena games?"

"Once more, Morgana. Summoning is a taxing procedure, and if you are unable to cooperate, we will have difficulty in the future." Any sign of patience was fading from Ashram's voice. "I will ask you once more before elevating the depth of this probe. Was your sister an adequate guardian?"

_Who are you, to pry into my past?_

"I am your benefactor, Morgana." The answer to her thought stunned her. Was he reading her mind? "You cannot hold reservations or mistrust if you are to be summoned. Believe me when I say what I am about to do is not out of malice, but for assurance. I have every reason to believe that you are powerful enough, but the question is if you're strong enough."

Ashram's last words had only enough time to reach Morgana's ears when her senses went swimming. A thousand voices, a thousand visions bombarded her all at once. Some pleasant, some distasteful, many willfully forgotten. Through the din, one voice overpowered the rest. Again and again, it echoed her name, each repetition piercing her ears deeper than the rest.

_No, not you. I am past you! Leave me be!_

"Morgana!" A switch snapped onto her hand, biting deep at her skin. Morgana clutched her wrist as she whimpered in pain. Peering through her golden locks, she could see Sir Renzo again. His towering height made his eyes all but invisible beneath the shadows of his hair, but his glare was no less present. His lips pursed into a lifeless crease. Lively as stone, his voice descended upon her. "Enough daydreaming. Recite the fifth vital tenant of divine magic."

She knew the words by heart. More than anything, she wanted to stand up tall in spite of the pain and speak them with pride. Instead, fear seized her by the throat and the words that leaked out were confused and strangled. The lash came down again, striking her across the cheek. The pain sent Morgana out of her chair and to the floor, writhing in a stream of her own tears. Why wouldn't they let her outside and play? Why did they have to trap her in this dark cage and beat her?

"Shameful." Renzo's voice was full of disdain. "What would your sister say if she saw you right now?" Morgana wanted Kayle to be there, to barge into the classroom and defend her. Kayle was strong, she would be able to protect her from Sir Renzo. But Morgana knew. Her sister would only side with Sir Renzo, and chastise her for being so absent-minded. She brought this punishment on herself, Kayle would tell her. This was what she deserved.

"I feel as if we are on the verge of a breakthrough here, Morgana." Ashram's voice had permeated her thoughts again. "But my, does this hole go ever deeper. If you should be able to survive just a touch longer, then our magic will be made available to you in no time at all." One protest was all it would take to end it all. Walk away, and the pain would subside. Morgana said nothing, thought nothing.

Chains bound Morgana's wrists and ankles; ropes tied her wings together. Torchlight lit the room just enough for Morgana to see her sister's face. Kayle should have been angry, even furious at the crime Morgana had wrought to deserve this. But the drooping corners of her lips made her look disappointed, maybe even sad. Sad that her sister had become a heretic, a stain on the family pride.

"Please Kayle, I didn't mean to," the younger sister begged. The impending punishment felt like a cold knife at her throat, ready to sever her freedom at any moment. "Let me go and I'll run away. Nobody ever has to see me again, not even you." She began to sob with her last words. She choked with desperation, ready to say anything to escape this mess. With tears, she gave Kayle one last pleading look. Nothing.

"You have sinned, and thus you must be punished." The words came from Kayle's mouth but Morgana could not hear her sister saying them. The room flared with light as Kayle's sword ignited, blinding Morgana for a moment. "I harbor you no ill will, sister. This is merely punishment." Morgana screamed and begged. Her sister's only response was to put on her helmet, that cold and lifeless mask she used to conceal her face. Kayle raised her sword high, the fire of judgment raging in the air.

"Kayle, no. No!" Morgana's protests climbed to a shriek. The heat of Kayle's magic bore down on her skin. But the flames had yet to burn away her wings. Then why, why did it hurt so much already? The tears forming in her eyes were not in anticipation. The pain she felt inside, that was the true torture. "Kayle," she said, her voice collapsed in defeat. "Sister, I love you."

It did not stop Kayle from tearing away her wings.

"There we have it, Morgana. Are you ready to answer this time?" Morgana could barely hear Ashram's voice over her own sobbing. "Why is it that you wish to join the League?"

"Because I want to be strong too," she let out between whimpers. Watery as her vision was, she could still see the image of her sister, straight and tall as always. "I just want to be like you." Morgana buried her face in her arms. Guilt, anguish, and shame poured out of her eyes.

"That wasn't so difficult, now was it?" Ashram looked down at his subject. Her worn body had curled up on the red chair, wrapped in her vestigial wings. Ashram stood over her, eyes analyzing her reaction. "Is there any feedback you'd like to provide, so that we can better refine this process?" The echoes of Morgana's sobbing flooded the empty room. "I see. Perhaps it would be wise of us to relax the judgment a bit, yes? Your agreement would appear to be implicit."

Ashram left the room without a second thought. Morgana remained alone in the chamber, with only her memories to keep her company. For all she cared, she could have stayed there forever.

_I'm so sorry, Kayle._


	8. Shyvana

Candidate: Shyvana

Date: 11 November, 21 CLE

**Observation**

A wave of heat washes over the chamber, the precursor to Shyvana's presence. Though she is recognizably humanoid, her features are anything but. Pale blue scales pattern her skin, a layer of natural armor that leaves her breastplate decorative. Her eyes glow golden, devoid of pupils, and her rust colored hair more resembles a mesh of wires. The ground trembles at her every step, belying her massive weight.

She raises a gauntlet at the twin doors, the armor stopping short of her fingertips, letting her vicious claws free. A finger points to the closed portal, and Shyvana commands that it open for her. The door yields before her, not daring to test her fury. She looks over her shoulder, to her liege behind her. They nod at one another before the half-dragon enters.

**REFLECTION**

Nobody had ever said those three words to Shyvana before. Nobody else had said them since either, but that didn't bother Shyvana. She only needed to hear them from one person.

His skin was warm and soft, vulnerable to anything that touched it. All of her effort went into being gentle, but her claws still scratched and nicked him many times. Every time he flinched, a few times she drew blood, and she never stopped apologizing for it. The way his body tensed up and his eyes screwed shut but his voice was always laughing, it made no sense. Despite being half-human herself, everything about this man was strange. Maybe it was because she had never spent much time around full-blooded humans before. Maybe it was because she had never been so close to one.

With the next prick of his skin, he retaliated. Whispering a taunt into her ear, he returned the favor, digging his soft fingernails into her flesh. Or at least, he tried. His scratches on her scaly plates barely tickled. In the heat of battle, she would never have noticed. But now, with every bit of her attention on his body, she felt everything. A giggle escaped her throat, but he caught them, pressing his tender lips against her own.

"Hush," he said. It wasn't a command or even a suggestion. Merely a prediction of the future as he kissed her again and again, swallowing any protests she may have made.

"Why are you allowed to make all the noise you want, while I am told to be silent?" Shyvana tilted her neck, leaning her head forward, offering herself for another taste of his lips. He accepted.

"Being royalty has its perks." He snatched her by the wrists, that mighty grip she expected from a warrior of his caliber, throwing her aside and rolling on top of her in one motion. "No offense, but you're quite heavy." He grimaced a bit, though Shyvana only furrowed her eyebrows in puzzlement.

"Why should I be offended? I understand my scales are heavier than your human skin." A moment passed as silence hung in the air, both unsure how to act. He broke the silence with another soft laugh.

"It's so easy to forget how different you can be." There was that word again, different. Yet, when he said it, nothing hurt. It was like some kind of praise, that he appreciated her for being so unusual. She had no time to reflect on how the word affected her this time, as her thoughts were interrupted by a heat welling inside of her.

His weight bored down on her as their bodies pressed together. Her back sank into the bedroll, feeling the hard ground beneath the tent's canvas. Shyvana gasped, her mouth stretching wide as her eyes fixated on his. They shone golden like hers, except he had pupils. For some reason, he was never afraid of the light that blazed in hers.

"Too sudden?" His whole body stopped, as if he were afraid of harming her. They both knew that was impossible, at least not with his bare hands. Shyvana curled her back, reaching up to her partner, and wrapped her arms around him.

"You don't have to be gentle," she said. "You know how strong I am. Pain is nothing to me." A pair of hands rested on her hips, massaging her sides gently.

"But do you want me to be gentle?" He leaned in close, touching their foreheads together. Sweated beaded off of his skin, trickling down her face. As it tickled her nose, she flinched, only to giggle afterwards.

"Yes."

His ever movement was slow and subtle. Every time they touched, she shuddered. She had never been so close to a human body. She had no idea that they could be so gentle, so pleasant. She had no idea that his lips would be this soft, awash with delight every time they brushed her skin. He was everywhere at once and it never ended, not even when she dug her her claws into his back.

Shyvana lost herself in a blaze of passion. Clinging to her partner, she felt joined to him. She never wanted to let go. Their voices raised in an intimate crescendo, each repeating the other's name. All Shyvana could see was his visage, just as lost in sensuality as she was.

Neither one had any breath in their lungs when it was over. He laid next to her, his mop of dark hair as splayed out on the ground as the rest of his body. She curled up next to him, head on his shoulder with his arm around her, tracing a taloned finger down the red marks on his chest. The way his breath filtered through her hair, she could have stayed like this forever.

"That was..." Shyvana paused as something welled up inside her. She felt a lump in her throat, rolling up to her nose. She began to sniffle as her eyes teared up.

"Are you okay?" He looked her in the eyes with that concerned she hadn't seen since she lost her father.

"It was so wonderful," she said as she began to cry and laugh at the same time. "I don't know why I'm crying, but it was so wonderful." He matched her sobs of laughter as his lips met her eyes, kissing away her tears of joy. "Is it normal for humans to do this?" she whispered into his ear.

"Why do you wish to join the League, Shyvana?' The half-dragon's eyes snapped open. He was standing before her in his battle regalia. Extending an armored hand, she touched his face. Warm as always, he was real. She was no longer living the memory.

"Because you accepted me for who I am," Shyvana said. She stepped close to him, holding his hands as their noses brushed against each other. "And for that, I'll follow you to the end of the world." They embraced and their lips met once more.

"Say it again," Shyvana whispered into his ear. More than anything, she wanted to hear those three words repeated forever. Jarvan, the crown prince of Demacia, smiled. He was always eager to say it.

"You're beautiful, Shyvana."


End file.
